


lepidoptera

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters: Gold Rush!AU [88]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Gen, Morgoth is a racist, Morgoth is a sore loser, Much Creepiness, Post-Chapter 3 of within the hollow crown, Psychological Torture, Slight Goriness, Unreliable Narrator, surprising no one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: You are horribly angry with the boy.





	lepidoptera

Your latest capture is a stolen Rembrandt--not stolen by you, of course; you paid the thief handsomely.

The thief, of course, was shot the next day in a shipyard. The money disappeared, or so you heard. You counted your own gold and traced a gloved hand over the dark, gleaming brushstrokes of the Dutch Master, wondering why he needed shadows so desperately.

 

No gloves for your latest work of art, which is a ragged-haired boy whose height matches yours.

His lithe body is limp on the floor, and two of your hired hands stretch his arms (strong arms) above his heavy-nodding head and hammer nails through the holes of the locking metal cuffs of Mairon's making. These will hold him to a makeshift rack more harshly than leather could. These are what he deserves.

The nails ring, and the sound is enough to make teeth clench. When teeth clench, flesh shifts. _Stings_.

The hammer-- _stops_ \--

And this done, the lean lines from shoulder to waist are drawn taut and exposed, arched like a begging dog. You are content again, looking at his loss of freedom bared.

There is muscle, yes, but he is hungrily spare. That is the art of him.

 

You have had little time for travel in the past decade. Travelers, if remunerated, visit _you_ , bringing spices and unguents, strange creatures, and rich textiles which you uniformly have dyed black before cutting and tailoring.

Of late, your mind, and the mind of others, stray to the Orient. China came to England, and to you, when you were trapped in rooms by appearances alone. There were many hours to fill, and Manwe wished you to be gently diverted. How fascinated you became with the curves of porcelain, with the endless wall, with the slender crane.

Asia is a land of warlike and opulent people. People who have held much power, though their heads are shaped all wrong.

One of their number you would claim more fondly than any silk or perfume--that dancing daughter of Thingol's. His wife hails from China, though not by the western route. He found her and married her, and treats her as an equal. She  _is_ a beautiful woman, but too old.

But the daughter--she must be new-bloomed, just as the boy with the gold-fringed, dark-brushed lashes thinks himself a man.

 

(You are horribly angry with the boy.)

 

If given to Mairon, he would soon be faceless and handless. He would have no opportunity to mock and deride. He would be a quivering mass of near-dead flesh.

(He was silent when you wished him shamed. He was angry when you wished him frightened. He--)

(He did whimper, when you pressed his father's ring against his damp cheek, but what is one whimper?)

 

You have retied your cravat twice, with the door locked. He moved like a wildcat. He moved like Feanor, with all his deliberation and intent, never did.

(Were you robbed or preserved?)

 

You step to where the men prepare to hoist him upright, and you set the point of your shoe against his neck. His child-face is flushed with a few light bruises. His mouth is still too dry.

(He drank like a man who desired despair. You must remember that.)

The men wait, scarcely breathing.

 _They_ fear you.

 

 _Everyone_ fears you, of course. Everyone who you have ever known is on a road to their own destruction. It is rank injustice, that Feanor played out of your hands, that Gothmog was cursedly impatient. It is rank injustice that--

You gesture, a sharp sweep of your hand, and they haul him upright. Neck and wrists and ankles are fastened to that board, that rack. His hips cant and shudder, but his head hangs low, unknowing. Does he dream?

When the board has been steadied and weighted against the wall, the men leave.

You think about carving him open. Taking that, too, from Mairon, who wants it fiercely. You could outline his tender lips and eyes in seeping blood. You could cut off his shell-fragile ears. You could--

 

A long time ago, when Manwe was small, you tied him to the trellis in the garden.

It was winter--but winter in the South, so not very cold. You left him there all night. The servants called and his mother (your mother?) wept and you told no one.

When he was found, he ran and embraced you first. You kissed his hair.

(You _are_ sorry, for the boy's hair--but pride is the first wall of defense.)

 

This boy thinks himself obstinate. Thinks himself brave. Thinks himself a dreadful sinner, with those soft eyes, that trembling mouth.

This will require pain.

 

You have to be...more than pain.

 

Feanor would have been yours to command and crush. You're sure of it. He would have raged and you would have drawn him apart in slow dissection. What is more--what is _better--_ you would have gloried in how difficult it was. How difficult, and how solely achievable by _you_.

 

Not from the Orient, but from this vibrant west, there are butterflies whose wings are feather-stiff. You know them. You have them each stabbed through the thorax with silver pins.

That is what the boy deserves. His eyes are silver by some lights. His eyes were silver when he--when.

With the room empty, you cross towards him, and you lift the lid of his shut eye with your thumb.

Nothing but bloodshot white.

 

He was supposed to--

 

You have business to attend to. The masterpiece that is Maitimo, gnawing heart, mad frame, stark beauty--can wait.

He isn't going to be difficult again. You're sure of it.


End file.
